


To Fly Toward a Secret Sky

by Butane Baby (Butane_Baby9)



Category: Dragon Ball, Dragon Ball Z
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Drama, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:15:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27734434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Butane_Baby9/pseuds/Butane%20Baby
Summary: A woman returns to her hometown full of memories about two beloved prep-school teachers who, like the girls they taught, were trying to understand their places in the world: One, a reserved English professor with an abiding appreciation for the written and spoken word, is a loner and first-generation immigrant. The other, a cheerful science and maths instructor with a generous spirit, is a force of nature who doesn't easily back down.
Relationships: Bulma Briefs/Vegeta, VegeBul - Relationship
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	To Fly Toward a Secret Sky

It had been thirty years since I'd set foot in this seemingly endless hallway. Normally, middle- and high-school-age girls would be buzzing around each other like dancing dragonflies, all dressed in the universal prep-school uniform: burgundy loafers, short white socks, grey pleated skirt, white shirt, and a blue blazer jacket with an embroidered school crest. But it was early summertime, and now anyone walking down this echoing corridor could hear themselves think, which I desperately needed on this day. Being the academy's new headmistress, it seemed like my life and experiences were coming full circle. I only hoped that I lived up to the rigorous standards those I respected laid out for me.  
  
I was too tired to be a basket of nervous energy over my job. Having moved from the other side of the country, where I decamped after university, the return home had been utterly exhausting. After I finally left the small Midwestern city of my youth -- population just under a half-million -- I hadn't expected to return. Bright lights and bigger metropolises called out to me. I hadn't desired to be like of the many girls I met in prep school, whose wealthy parents wanted their offspring educated but were perfectly fine seeing them married off to our city's "proper" and well-heeled young bucks -- and then expecting lots and lots of babies posthaste. Employment or even avocation was optional.  
  
Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against that way of life. I am a teacher and love children after all, and I'm in a happy marriage. However, it bothered me that this was the bare minimum expected for girls in this environment -- and others. Authority figures around us didn't always value or attempt to understand our inner lives. Yet this didn't apply to everyone. Tradition and personal growth can co-exist. I learned that from my favorite teachers, Dr. Brief and Dr. Prens. We sassy girls simply called them by their first names, Bulma and Vegeta -- though never to their faces, but it's not like they were unaware. Teachers have superhuman hearing. I can attest to this.

But I digress.  
  
Bulma, whose personality epitomized effervescence, taught maths and introductory physics. Vegeta was our academy's reserved, curt English professor, as well as the school's resident polyglot. (He spoke three other languages besides English: French, Latin, and his native Istanbul Turkish.) Both were fair, talented instructors, but getting a straight "A" from either was like waiting for a UFO in the desert. Access to their respective training lairs from sophomore year through graduation was a highly coveted privilege, and the more competitive girls in the academy's honors classes vied for both their attention and praise. For some it was status; for others, like me, it was a way to find ourselves.  
  
Almost all of the parents were fond of Bulma, though they didn't always care for her personal politics. She didn't wear her views like an armband, but, as a scientist, she despised lazy and uninformed thinking -- and never had a problem saying so. Vegeta, however, was more enigmatic. He came from wealth but rejected any discussion of his family ties, which ran deep in our gossipy little city. (The informal communications networks of people here aren't that different from those in small towns.) Many of those same parents were Vegeta's contemporaries, having grown up and attended boys school with him. During a trip to their lake house, my best friend Amelia's father, whom I had liked, proceeded to make fun of our teacher. He said Vegeta was "a weirdo" who was "lucky not to be destitute," implying that the man's intellectual talents rendered him "incapable of coping in the real world," whatever that meant.  
  
"Trust funds have their benefits, Alys," Mr. Ainsworth said smugly. "Dr. Prens is fortunate to have one the size of Russia and the former Soviet bloc nations, I'm sure. His family hit the jackpot. The man could have done anything with his life. I would've killed to attend Harvard!"   
  
Though Dr. Prens was rich -- and we all knew he was -- he had no problem verbally skewering anyone making derisive comments about the children our school recruited who didn't share his or other students' almost infinite privileges. I had been one of them.  
  
Mind you, I also know Amelia's dad was practicing revisionist history. He wanted to be a professional football player but failed to make the cut. His family also ran a huge brewery that made lots of money. Amelia later said she heard her dad and his buddies reminiscing one night over drinks and cigars about the practical jokes they played on Vegeta in high school. What she described sounded more like bullying to us, but that had been long ago, and it was clear that our teacher wasn't easily pushed around by anyone now. He was short, but the man's physique was as solid as Mount Everest. Even the snootier "cool girls" in my class who didn't mix with unhip "plebeians," such as myself, had crushes on him.  
  
Indeed, Vegeta was a strikingly attractive man, though uninhibited smiles from him were rare. My peers sometimes competed to get small ones out of him. They were like those insatiable Forty-Niners in the Old West, splashing through the California territory's rivers seeking wealth. Those lucky girls who struck gold took advantage of their social currency immediately, winking at their tittering friends as they relished their achievement. I sat back and watched, being the shy observer that I was, wondering whether their fathers were aware of their infatuation. Though the girls' behavior was harmless, I have a feeling those men did know, including Amelia's dad. By just staying true to himself as an educator, Vegeta had turned the tables on those men's cruelty and condescension in his own unique way. I respected that.   
  
Nevertheless, his sternness could be intimidating. Once he set his dark eyes on anyone acting inappropriately, the glare was akin to a molecular-laser vaporization. He took his duties seriously, worked hard, and expected all to follow suit. No one was sheltered from these expectations, including our parents. He often disappeared during lunch with a book or papers to grade, eating alone. Other teachers stopped inviting him to join them as they rotated between their private lounge and the dining chamber to monitor us. The supervision was a shared duty among our school's faculty, but they didn't complain about Vegeta not participating regularly because he took on other mundane, tiring tasks that no one wanted, and sometimes used his Sundays to complete them. After lunch, he would saunter down the hall, giving short nods to colleagues until the bell chimed for the next class. He stood by the entrance, greeting and counting us one by one. Latecomers had a two-minute window to page him or the headmistress's office about any difficulties before he locked the door; otherwise, they needn't bother coming at all.   
_  
"Good afternoon, Dr. Prens."  
  
"Miss Davies."_  
  
I always liked how he pronounced my name.  
  
Bulma could be heard laughing and talking down the hall during our class almost every day. Vegeta's reactions to the noise ranged from mild annoyance to outright exasperation. Reciting Shakespeare over her roaring cackles, no matter how joyous the laughter, had to be maddening. His accent thickened as his anger increased. Once the pulsing vein appeared on the side of his head, signaling that he'd had enough interruption, we knew the shit would soon hit the fan -- big time. This was before the advent of massive cell phone use by kids, though several had them. Instead, some girls had pagers, which came out like artillery to text friends in other classes about the forthcoming spat.  
  
Vegeta stood, adjusting his gray blazer jacket before throwing the door open. It slammed against the back wall, denting it. That was new. Amelia and I cast "holy shit" glances at each other, beating our other classmates' stampede to the door to watch. Vegeta, still recovering from a flu outbreak that swept through our school like wildfire, was sweaty and pale but no less determined to lock horns, lumbering down like a bull through the streets of Pamploma, Spain.  
  
Madam Chi Chi, the school's drama and dance teacher, caught a glimpse while Bulma chattered on without noticing. Vegeta's staggered yet quickening pace drove the madam to touch her friend's shoulder, stopping their largely one-sided conversation. Bulma pivoted, appearing genuinely confused -- if not shocked -- by Vegeta's contorted expression. She then donned her cheeriest smile, followed by a friendly hand wave.  
  
"Hi there! Everything OK? We were just discussing doing a production of _The Taming of the Shrew_ with the boys school eventually. I saw your syllabus. You're still planning to teach it, right?"  
  
Vegeta's eyes had an unmistakable look of a man wondering how someone could be this clueless. "Must you do this every single blasted day, _woman_?" he growled.  
  
Bulma and Chi Chi glanced at each other. The "woman" thing definitely caught their attention. Not a great look for any man in such an environment. Bulma patted down her long bell-shaped skirt before replying, gradually raising her baby blue eyes to meet his.  
  
"Do _what_ , Dr. Prens?"  
  
"This!" he panted angrily. " _This here._ Prattling every day like a flock of unfed starlings, at the top of your obviously _broad_ lungs, while learning takes place! I can barely hear myself think some days."   
  
Hoping to keep the peace, Chi Chi tried to interrupt. "Vegeta, it looks like you're still not feeling well. I'm happy to take over your classes while you go home and rest."  
  
Vegeta's eyes stayed on Bulma, whose cheek protruded from a tongue planted inflexibly inside of it -- a telling sign her growing fury.  
  
"I _am not_ the problem, madam," Vegeta replied with acid-tipped politeness. "Your rude friend is. My physical condition is just fine."  
  
"I'm the problem?" Bulma asked briskly. "You _definitely_ need to cool your jets, buddy, and let's get something straight, you don't get to call the shots around here. I'll be damned if I tiptoe around _anyone_ or be addressed in the bad-mannered, overtly sexist way you just did. Let me remind you that this is a _girls school_ , so get your act together and try to set a better example than the preening, self-important jerks you went to prep school with. I thought you were better than that -- and the girls deserve better."  
  
"Excuse me?" Vegeta snarled. After taking a short breath and shakily wiping his forehead, he continued. "Let's talk about you momentarily, _Dr. Brief_. Your inferiority complex about not attending a school like this at their age does them a disservice as well. So stop trying to compensate by seeking attention from everyone like a B-list reality-TV star to build your self-esteem."  
  
Of the two verbal burns, Vegeta's was the hydrogen bomb versus Bulma's atom bomb. Everyone in our class winced, feeling terrible for her. Bulma and Vegeta both made good points about their respective behaviors, but this was moving toward scorched-earth war. Neither seemed to care who saw either. Doors on both sides of the faculty lounge were wide open as other students and their instructors stood in shock. Seeing Vegeta let loose like this was nothing short of astonishing. Watching Bulma go mute and stiff felt the same way. But then she got fired up again, tearing into him like a badger. For me, the strangest part was I wanted them to both win _and_ lose. Life is messy. Something had to give.  
  
"Stop this melee right now," Chi Chi said, sounding more like a mother than we all expected. "You're both not setting a very good example for the girls by continuing to do this out in the open."  
  
"Quite true, madam," the school's headmistress said, walking behind her. She then paused, paying close attention to the argument's many observers. "I think the entire academy has heard enough of their soon-to-be-uncontrollable row. Isn't that _correct_ , Drs. Prens and Brief?"  
  
Neither teacher replied. Vegeta wiped his forehead again before crossing his burly arms, showing a lack of openness. Bulma didn't make eye contact with the dean, while Madam Chi Chi rubbed her back. Bulma didn't appear like she needed comforting, but how could she not? Thinking over it again, I began to feel angry with Vegeta. He had been a trusted defender of girls like me. He had no right to take that route with Bulma -- to make her defend her standing --- given everything she had accomplished in life.  
  
But was he really putting down her accomplishments or clumsily trying to make another point?  
  
"In my office," the dean ordered in a clipped tone. Helena Borden was a tall, imposing figure who ruled our academy with an iron fist and steely will. "We'll complete your…chat there, and I get the _last_ word. Madam, are you able to take Dr. Prens' remaining classes today?"  
  
"Yes, ma'am," Chi Chi replied dutifully. "Of course."  
  
"I can handle my classes after our meeting, dean," Vegeta said, proudly raising his chin. Even from a distance, he still seemed off-kilter. I finally walked outside, followed by a few more of my braver classmates, to get a better view.  
  
"I think not," Helena said. "Considering that you started the argument, Vegeta, all of which I watched on the monitor in my office, I'm suspending you until further notice."  
  
We gasped, covering our mouths.  
  
Bulma suddenly looked shaken -- and surprisingly concerned, but not about herself. She swallowed before speaking. "I believe that may be somewhat harsh, ma'am."  
  
"Right now, I am _not_ concerned about what _you_ believe," Helena said tersely. "I know what I heard. Though you could definitely afford to be more considerate with your colleagues at times, you said nothing wrong and appropriately defended yourself. Now then, shall we proceed to my office?"  
  
Vegeta's skull felt like it would explode. The humiliation of being suspended in front of his coworkers and students was devastating. He had brought this on himself. Why had he done something so stupid? His sight became blurry as the women looked on. Chi Chi frowned, seeing his eyes mist and become glassy.  
  
"Are you all right?" she asked, stepping closer. He heard her question, but it sounded like they were under water. "Dean, I think we need to get him to the infirmary right now. He's very pale."  
  
"No, Chi Chi," Vegeta slurred. His head was spinning. "I said I'm… I'm… fine."   
  
The women knew then that something was very wrong. Vegeta never called any of them by their first names. His legs gave out, dropping him forward. Acting quickly, Bulma and Chi Chi caught him on both sides. Helena, who had once been a military nurse, lifted her skirt as they carefully laid his body down. Her long, powerful legs swung off to the side as she took Vegeta's pulse.  
  
"Get a rig over here," she ordered. "His heart rate is up."  
  
"On it," Bulma replied, opening a flip phone certain teachers carried around school for emergencies. She kneeled, helping Helena roll Vegeta on his side into a recovery position. "Yes, we need an ambulance dispatched immediately to Sheffield Academy in Quality Gardens. A teacher is unconscious, but he's breathing."  
  
I don't know what came over me, but I hit the ground running to join them, followed by Amelia. Chi Chi stopped us with a strict stare, grabbing our arms. "What are you two doing?"  
  
"We want to help," I said. "Maybe we should have said something in class. He didn't look good then."  
  
"He didn't look _well_ ," Helena said softly, correcting my grammar. Perhaps it was her way of reminding us about our English teacher's expectations. "There's nothing you can do, Alys. We have this under control. Return to your classroom with Madam Chi Chi."  
  
"Yes, ma'am," I said reluctantly as Chi Chi smiled. She tried to be reassuring, walking with her arms around us, but we felt uneasy. I looked back at Bulma, whose hand held the back of Vegeta's head.  
  
Many years later Chi Chi and I met in New York for coffee, filling in the blanks that escaped my memory or weren't recorded there at all. Then I found my journals, recounting those days, weeks and months.  
  


* * *

  
Vegeta woke up feeling terribly nauseous and awful, naturally. His left arm was attached to an IV, and a cannula lightly pushed oxygen into his nose. This was the last thing he wanted -- and for the love of god, he hoped his father Ӧmer wouldn't show up ranting about his care at the hospital. A female attending physician entered, carrying a computer tablet. Vegeta hadn't noticed the seated figure not too far from him in the recovery room. It was 4 a.m., fourteen hours since paramedics brought him to the facility.  
  
"Can you hear me, sir?" the doctor asked. Her diction was distinctly British, but she also had a slight accent from somewhere else. She was also breathtakingly gorgeous, though her patient didn't notice. That was fine with her.  
  
"Your voice sounds…like a truck horn," Vegeta replied, making the doctor chuckle. He didn't think he was being funny. It was the truth. "What happened?"  
  
"Well, sir, you were dehydrated and your blood sugar was pretty high when the medics brought you," the doctor said, checking her tablet, "and obviously you haven't had much sleep. We were told you had a bad flu bout, and those are nasty complications from your infection. How long have you been diabetic? Does your wife know?"  
  
Vegeta closed his eyes, attempting to clear his head. "I don't…I'm not married."   
  
The doctor gestured toward the other side of the dimly lit room, moving a curtain further back. Vegeta blinked sluggishly, recognizing someone he hadn't expected to be there. Bulma yawned and stretched. Vegeta was none too pleased, hoping the medical staff hadn't shared every last detail. It was terrible enough to be wrapped in a giant paper towel, laying on a hospital gurney. At least his feet weren't bare.  
  
"How's he doing, doc?" Bulma asked, standing on the other side of the bed.  
  
"Fine," Vegeta said before the other woman could answer. "I'm fine."  
  
"He'll be in better shape by tomorrow," the physician replied, smiling at her. "The sleep he's had so far is helpful and necessary. He's in good physical condition otherwise. This was a setback that can be -- "  
  
Vegeta's arm lifted, stopping her rundown. "She's heard… enough."  
  
Catching on to his concern about privacy, the doctor complied. "Ah…my recommendation is that you rest a few days at home after leaving here today."  
  
"I have…plenty of time off," Vegeta replied, recalling his embarrassing suspension. "It will provide time to think." He purposely avoided making eye contact with Bulma.  
  
The doctor held her tablet against her chest, replying in Turkish, "As I said, you look fit, Vegeta -- and also appear to be as mean as ever. I guess I am not surprised you don't recognize me, but that could just be my ego showing, so forgive me."   
  
Vegeta's eyes narrowed as Bulma returned to her seat. "Afet?" He covered his face, now recognizing one of his kid brother Tarble's many ex-girlfriends. "Oh, damn."  
  
"You should be ashamed," Afet replied, laughing. "Let's hope god doesn't hear you, heathen. I rang your brother. He has arranged for a car to retrieve you in a couple hours. I still want to have some more bloodwork done. Your father doesn't know you are here yet. For now, I suggest you treat the very understanding lady over there with respect and humility."  
  
"How _gracious_ of you to attend… to a struggling atheist," Vegeta replied in Turkish. He didn't hide his annoyance either. "Anything else? And that understanding lady teaches at the academy."  
  
Bulma had never heard him speak at length in Turkish before. The words rolled over his tongue like a quiet waterfall. It sounded lovely.  
  
Afet touched his shoulder, lowering the lights over the gurney. "Try to be happy, my friend. We're still young, and life is meant to be lived well -- and to be filled with love." She winked at Bulma before departing, inviting her return to Vegeta's side.  
  
Bulma put on her mini-backpack, strapping it firmly over her shoulders. She wasn't thrilled about a full day ahead of teaching a horde of worried, nosy girls. Many saw her leave with Vegeta and the paramedics. Fortunately she resided on campus, near the old rectory where generations of male vicars had lived. Getting at least an hour-long nap was possible.  
  
"Diabetes runs in my family," she said to him, hoping to make a closer connection. "If you need any --"  
  
Vegeta, whose expression was blanker than a chalkboard, wasn't in the mood for anyone's commiseration. He wanted to be alone. "I don't want to have this conversation, and neither do you, given how uncomfortable you appear to be now. Don't… take up any more of your valuable time. I'm sure the headmistress still hopes you plan to work today, and you've already lost a lot of prep time. Thank you for your assistance."  
  
Bulma stared at the ceiling. " _Assistance_? Heh. How highborn of you, oh glorious crown prince of the great state of Missouri. Shall I fetch your fez and slippers?"  
  
"Do not _joke_ … about things of which you know _so little_ ," Vegeta warned. The fez comment pissed him off considerably. "For… all of your liberal outspokenness, I thought you were above being culturally insensitive, or shall we merely call it ignorance?"  
  
Angry and offended, Bulma's cheeks reddened. "You know, I've tried to hold back, but screw professional formality. You're an asshole. Before all of this, I hoped to get to know you better, especially because so many of the girls enjoy your classes. You don't give any _adults_ a chance to reach out in a friendly way, Vegeta. I mean, it's been five years since we started working together."  
  
Vegeta sat up, placing his hands across his lap. "Tell me something, Dr. Brief. Were you bullied a lot?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"You heard me."  
  
Bulma folded her arms. "What of it?"  
  
"Actually, I'm not done yet," Vegeta continued tiredly. "Have you also… had…had people attempt to use your intelligence selfishly to benefit themselves? Have your other accomplishments and ideas been undervalued because of your nonconformity, harmless eccentricities, or interests? Have you had people judge you as 'less than' before you even open your mouth?"  
  
"Of course," Bulma said as her eyes softened. "All of my life, especially as a woman, but you can stop now. I think this is how we got into trouble before."  
  
Vegeta leaned back. "Yes, unfortunately, but my opinion still applies. Tell me what has more meaning than your own strength? I have nothing to prove. Neither do you -- not to me, not to our coworkers, or _anyone_ else."  
  
Bulma smiled, pushing back her bushy lavender hair. "You sure have an ass-backward way of apologizing to a lady, but I'll accept. I'll blame the rest of your rudeness to your diabetic emergency. Hyperglycemia can definitely can make people a little nutty."   
  
Vegeta's eyes shifted toward the door. "I may be an ass, but I… do… not forget kindnesses. Consider yourself owed one."  
  
"You don't owe me anything," Bulma replied, opening the door. "Good deeds aren't meant to be bartered transactions." Despite her frustration, she felt sorry for the man. Vegeta was obviously lonely. She had been where he was emotionally many times, wanting to withdraw from a misunderstanding world, but refused to allow bitterness or hurt feelings undermine her spirit.   
  
Vegeta threw his covers off shortly thereafter, removing the wires attached to his arm and chest -- his signal to the nursing station to get busy. He wanted the IV taken out. His pride was wounded. He'd worked so hard to be healthy, building up the body to prove it -- and now this. Having been diagnosed with diabetes two months earlier, he knew what was required to manage his condition properly, but first he had to accept the situation. Until he mourned, that could not happen. After years of looking in the mirror and telling himself he wasn't weak, old emotional wounds now needed resuturing.  
  
Waiting for the hired car wasn't going to happen. A cab would do just fine. He picked up his phone, using the speed dial. "It's your brother. I'll be leaving for my home shortly. I know what you have planned. I'm not staying with you. Trying…to…to…send a chauffeur gave it away."  
  
"You're not in a position to dictate _anything_ to me, Vegeta, unless you want father to know today. I can _make_ that happen quickly."  
  
Vegeta inhaled, trying to loosen the tightness in his lungs. "Honestly, Tarble! It's improper to make threats, let alone suggest blackmail. I should have said nothing to you about the diabetes."  
  
Undaunted, Tarble continued fluffing the pillows in a guest bedroom. "Maybe, but thanks for the advance notice in case you come close to dropping dead again. You sound so exhausted, abi. It is time for a rest. Please, just let me do this. It’s what our _anne_ would want. I won't disturb you much."  
  
"I am the older brother," Vegeta grumbled, shutting his eyes. "Don't forget that, and stop using mother's memory to guilt me into doing the things you want."  
  
"So you're coming?"  
  
"Evet," Vegeta said, waving the phone overhead. "Evet, _karde_ _ş._ "  
  
Tarble breathed a sigh of relief. "Excellent, _abi_." Getting a yes out of his brother over something like this was no small achievement. "I look forward to having you. It is an honor. By the way, your teacher friend sounds like a wonderful individual. That's what Afet said. Maybe I'll send a delicacy basket. Then I can offer her my thanks in person."  
  
Vegeta could almost feel his soft-spoken brother's grin. He grabbed a water glass, trying to avoid coughing. "The hell you will on that last part. Over my _dead_ body."  
  


* * *

  
Bulma was gorgeous, even at her most disheveled, though personality played a huge role in that. The slower pace of her lecturing indicated to us how tired she was. We tried not to be too annoying, hoping she would tell us much more about Vegeta's status. Waiting until the end of class to learn everything -- beyond gossip heard from outside the faculty lounge -- was agonizing. Shortly before the bell, Bulma finally stopped and asked us to close our notebooks.  
  
"I'm sure Dr. Prens would be proud that you payed attention fully with the teachers in his classes today and others, including this one. Well done. He will be away a few days to rest."  
  
"What's wrong with him?" asked my classmate Siobhan. She was an overbearing overachiever who also carried the high honor of making Vegeta smile with her entertaining renditions of Irish poetry.  
  
"It's hard to get over the flu sometimes when you haven't had it for a while as an adult," Bulma said. "That led to some complications yesterday. He was coherent and speaking before I left hospital."  
  
"He seemed much more tired, even before he got the flu," Siobhan replied, joined by other girls.  
  
Bulma smiled. By far, Vegeta was the prickliest instructor at the academy, and yet we girls adored him. There were several reasons beyond his handsome looks, one being his flawless recitation of poetry from all cultures, as well as Shakespearean prose. The unlimited sweets he kept in his desk counted for another. Five minutes before the bell each Friday, he usually left the room silently, allowing us to raid the bottom drawers like starving desert buzzards. One side had baklava or some other pastry. The other contained the beautiful multicolored "Turkish delight" candies called Lokum.  
  
"We teachers get tired too, girls," Bulma said, blowing a kiss as the next bell summoned us. "Such is life, and you keep giving us grey hair daily. As I said, Dr. Prens will be fine. Attend to your studies."  
  
Amelia and I had study hall next, so we weren't in much of a hurry. We stood on both sides, helping her erase the room's long horizontal chalkboards.  
  
Bulma's eyes moved from right to left. "Thank you, ladies. I appreciate the assistance, but I'm perfectly OK doing this alone."  
  
"But we want to help, Dr. Brief," Amelia insisted. "We know you're tired too. Staying at hospital all night was hard, I'm sure."  
  
Bulma wiped her hands, returning to her desk. "You're terrible spies. I suggest sticking to maths and English. As I said, Vegeta will be OK, but I'll make sure you're informed first if his condition changes. But keep in mind that people are also entitled to some privacy when they're ill."  
  
Until then, we had never heard her call Vegeta by his first name.  
  
"We understand," I said. "I know privacy is important to him. I'm the same way. Um, how… are you?"  
  
Bulma paused, observing me. Besides the headmistress or Chi Chi, I sensed that maybe no one asked how she really felt. She and Vegeta weren't competing for popularity, but teenagers are notorious for taking sides in arguments too way seriously. Bulma had been embarrassed in public too.  
  
"I am in perfect spirits, Alys," she replied with a gentle touch on my head. "I want you and Amelia to understand something. He was wrong yesterday and properly called out by the headmistress, but his illness also affected his behavior. Nevertheless, we both are in good standing now. The lesson here is we can show compassion while not allowing others to treat us inappropriately. I appreciate that you asked, though."  
  
"Yes, ma'am. I'm glad you and Dr. Prens are OK. We care about you both."  
  
"Bye, ladies."  
  
Tears formed in Bulma's eyes as we hugged her. Amelia and I then launched a race to study hall. Not too long after, a courier brought a basket to Bulma's room. An attached card bore the image of a cypress tree. Inside, a poem by Rumi, the thirteenth century Persian poet, was engraved in gold lettering:  
  
 _When you do things from your soul, you feel a river moving in you. A joy. --_ _We appreciate your generosity, Ms. Brief. Thank you. Sincerely, Vegeta, Tarble, and_ _Ӧmer Prens._  
  
Chi Chi entered the room, hauling in a box of notepads. Bulma opened a bag of dried apricots as her friend further examined the basket's contents.  
  
"Wow! Sultana grapes, figs, pistachios, hazelnuts, cured olives, pastries, and a bottle of Raki. Nice _mea culpa_ gift package you have here, Bulma. Does the pretty card have a holiday plane ticket too?"   
  
Bulma laughed, biting down on the sticky fruit. "I wonder who forced Vegeta into this."  
  
"If he's the actual person behind these goodies, it's the least he could do," Chi Chi said, stuffing a handful of nuts into her mouth. "Maybe a concierge did it for him."   
  
"Could be. The card did address me as Ms. Brief."  
  
Chi Chi chuckled. "Yup, that's definitely hired help. Must be nice to have those folks on call."  
  
"You know, Chi Chi, the one thing I realized today is how lonely that man is."  
  
"I could have told you that a long time ago, dear," Chi Chi said, locking arms with her. "Still, one must be willing to accept an open hand with an open heart. Beyond the girls, several of us have tried extending both to Vegeta. He's definitely not a bad person, but just keep that other part in mind."  
  
Bulma tapped the card against her chin, thinking about the poem. "I will."

* * *

After a week, Vegeta's students were becoming nervous about his absence, including me. I just didn't make a big show over it like the other drama queens in my class and others. Amelia's mother, one of our substitute teachers, scolded us for being overly involved in adults' lives. She spent thirty minutes of valuable instruction time droning on about being "on the blossoming precipice of womanhood."  
  
It was ghastly.  
  
At home my mother couldn't stop laughing, asking me if the woman knew the true meaning of precipice. "Heaven help us if our kids dive of the cliff of womanhood!" she howled. Yet mom mostly agreed about the rest, but with more understanding. She was also happy that I was performing well in Vegeta's class and others. I had to. Money was tight, and getting a university scholarship was a must.  
  
In typical fashion, our headmistress was tight-lipped. No one ventured to ask whether Helena planned to sack Vegeta, not even other faculty members who had closer relationships with her. We didn't believe she would be that heartless to fire him, considering everything that happened. Against Chi Chi's advice, Bulma was the first one who broke ranks. Helena was in Vegeta's classroom the following Friday after classes ended, reading through a binder on his desk -- and downing multiple pieces of his candy.  
  
Bulma carefully closed the door, standing still until Helena acknowledged her. Neither knew Amelia and I were in a smaller alcove in the rear, working on essays together. They hadn't thought to check.   
  
"How may I help you?" Helena asked, shutting the binder. "You could have started your weekend much earlier, you know. That's why I let the girls leave at one today."  
  
"I know, but I took some of Vegeta's chores," Bulma said, removing her backpack. "It's not a big deal."  
  
Helena picked up a poetry chapbook, fingering through its pages. "It is _not_ in your or Vegeta's best interest to shoulder any guilt. I ---"  
  
"Are you going to fire him?" Bulma blurted out. Irritated with being interrupted, Helena responded with a lengthy silence. Then she sighed.  
  
"No, dear. That's why I'm in here. He's given notice. I received a resignation letter by messenger today. I stand by his suspension, but had he not been ill, that would have lasted no more than a couple days. I believe this is a rash response on Vegeta's part, but I can't do much until hearing from him directly."  
  
Saddened, Bulma sat down to absorb the news. "But he can't quit. Not like this. Have you accepted the resignation?"  
  
"Not yet."  
  
"How long will you wait?"  
  
"Dr. Brief, I have said enough already," Helena replied, holding Bulma's palms in hers. "Keep this quiet until a formal announcement is made."  
  
Bulma nodded. "Yes, ma'am. Oh I feel so badly for the girls."  
  
"They will recover. Vegeta would expect no less from our stellar young ladies, and I will be the first one to remind them. I'm taking over the juniors' literature class. If he really doesn't return, then I'll hire a contractor to teach the seniors' composition course until a permanent replacement is found."  
  
"Yes, ma'am."   
  
Helena smiled, hugging her shoulder. "Go home and rest yourself, Bulma. We need you in top shape for science week. I have a good feeling that Sheffield will be attending the state championship this year."  
  
Amelia and I dragged our miserable selves from the alcove afterward. Hearing this felt like a paddle to our shins. I opened our teacher's desk, searching for any other hard candy that Helena didn't gorge.  
  
"What are we going to do, Alys?"  
  
I kicked the wall. "This is so hard. I mean, you heard what the dean said, Amelia. I'm not in the mood to deal with our classmates' histrionics yet either. It might be better to wait. He might change his mind."  
  
"Maybe he's sicker than we know about," Amelia speculated. "That could be it."  
  
"I'm not so sure, but we'll just have to wait. What a horrible way to start a weekend."  
  
Bulma also felt similarly but was determined to take matters into her own hands. But first she had to identify Vegeta's whereabouts. The dean didn't provide more details about his location. Thinking over her options, Bulma galloped toward the school's main entrance, pressing an opener button. The doors swung open with more force than they should have -- a malfunction -- almost hitting an immaculately dressed man. He had a well-groomed goatee, raven hair, high cheekbones, and was well over six-feet tall. He sniffed, looking down at her in more ways than one.  
  
"So glad we avoided colliding, madam."  
  
Bulma collected herself, looking up. His accent sounded familiar. "Likewise. That door should be fixed."  
  
"Make sure you mention that to your headmistress," the man said, extending his giant hand to shake hers. "My name is Dr. Ӧmer Prens. I am looking for my son Vegeta. Are you aware of his classroom's location? I know he stays late on campus some days. This is my first visit here."  
  
Bulma's mouth almost dropped. Vegeta and his brother hadn't told their father yet? What in the world was happening here? She also found it fascinating that the elder Dr. Prens was the non-biblical version of Goliath -- albeit probably more handsome -- but stopped short of linking any psychological Napoleon complex to Vegeta's behavior.  
  
That would be insulting.  
  
Ӧmer didn't like to be kept waiting -- or having anyone stare at him, unless he was getting some kind of thrill out of the situation. "Madam?"   
  
Bulma looked at her watch. "Oh sorry! Vegeta wasn't in today, sir. However, the headmistress's office is two hallways down. Make a left turn and then a right. Dean Helena Borden is still available to assist. Perhaps you could chat since _it is_ your first time here."  
  
"I see," Ӧmer responded, appearing suspicious. "Very well. I don't intend to stay long. I am a busy man. I have been out of town for quite some time."   
  
He decided to ride this one out and speak with Helena. Vegeta was known for waiting weeks before conversing with him, especially when school wasn't in session. But this wasn't the summer, and his son was no slouch professionally. Vegeta never skipped out on work. Ӧmer only hoped that his eldest would have been interested in running the family business. Mastering the English language was necessary in this world. Regaling pubescent Midwestern prep-school girls with an antiquated literary canon and overhyped pedagogy, not so much, in his opinion. He blamed himself for this "failure to influence Vegeta properly" -- his words -- and almost always said so with theatrical sorrow when his sons were present.  
  
Ӧmer's late wife Zehra softened the excesses of this self-pitying and self-serving behavior, usually by kissing and patting their boys' faces vigorously, followed by a fiery tongue lashing of her dear husband privately. As a kid, Tarble eavesdropped long after Vegeta had lost interest in their parents' child-rearing negotiations. After Zehra died, the chasm she tried so earnestly to bridge between her husband and eldest widened. They dealt with their deep sorrow separately. Tarble willingly stepped into his mother's shoes, reminding them of tradition and love, even encouraging his older brother to spend more time with their extended family overseas -- who were eager to have him -- to ground himself.  
  
"A pleasure meeting you, Dr. Prens," Bulma said. "Unfortunately, I have to run. Would enjoy speaking with you at length sometime."  
  
Ӧmer stroked his chin. "Really? Why is that? It can't be because my son has said much about me. I'm very sure about that."  
  
Bulma cleared her throat, thinking fast. "Well, no, but I trained as a physicist -- and you are one as well."  
  
Ӧmer's booming laughter caught her by surprise. "I am. Earned my doctorate at sixteen. Biggest mistake of my life until I started my company. The training finally came in useful. Here, take my business card. When you've had enough of being hounded by pushy parents and their bratty children, call my office. I might have a job for you -- ah, excuse me, but you never shared your name."  
  
Bulma took the card. "Oh yes. I am Dr. Bulma Brief."  
  
"And where did you do your dissertation? MIT? Stanford?"  
  
Neither, she thought.  
  
"That is _enough_ interrogation for now, baba. Ms. Brief doesn't owe you her entire academic history."  
  
Ӧmer's thumb slipped beneath the fob chain on his double-breasted suit. "Tarble? Come closer and let me look at you. You must know where your brother is. Also, address her as _Dr. Brief,_ son."  
  
Bulma figured that Vegeta had to be somewhat OK. Tarble hadn't immediately spilled the beans about further problems. Yet she couldn't imagine hiding news from her own family if she had been ill. Tarble was short like Vegeta but also well-dressed, taking a page out of Ӧmer's style handbook. The younger man's attire was more artsy: long cashmere scarf, men's casual jacket, and expensive black jeans.  
  
"Welcome back, baba," he replied, approaching them. "Please accept my apology for not using your formal title, Dr. Brief."  
  
"Thank you," Bulma said, allowing him to take her hand between his palms. She felt a small piece of paper scratching her thumb. Tarble held her gaze -- a hint -- and smiled kindly before letting go.  
  
"It's highly improper to flirt at a time like this, Tarble," Ӧmer said crossly. "I'd like my question answered, and there are plenty more where that came from."  
  
Tarble cut his eyes at Ӧmer before smiling again at Bulma. "Please excuse us. I imagine you planned to leave some time ago."  
  
"It's all right," Bulma said, opening her purse. "Sorry I can't help you further." She removed her last bag of apricots to munch on. "I don't mean to be rude, but I haven't eaten much today." Her eyes cleverly pivoted toward Tarble, whose barely perceptible closed-mouthed smile resembled his brother's.  
  
He liked her even more. Now it was time to distract his father. "No worries, madam. Let's visit Vegeta's classroom to talk, baba. The interior is decorated in interesting ways too. Be well, Dr. Brief."  
  
After jumping into her car, Bulma saw the paper had an address to an expensive high-rise building near downtown and a phone number. A scribble at the bottom asked her to park in the private garage and said the doorman was waiting on her arrival.  
  
"Promenade Towers, here I come!"

* * *

Vegeta grudgingly admitted to himself that staying at his brother's home was the best decision. Tarble was so good-hearted that it was impossible not to love him -- and even harder to reject his requests. Vegeta spent his time off from Sheffield thinking and writing and alternating between moderate exercise and rest. Afet called him, sounding apologetic, with a request to see a new endocrinologist. Though she had believed Vegeta would be fine after leaving hospital a week earlier, as a precaution, she sent his blood tests to a specialist friend anyway. By Friday, after meeting with this doctor, he had decided to resign.  
  
He exhaled as the intercom next to his desk buzzed. "Yes, what is it, Roy?"  
  
"Dr. Prens, your brother is expecting a delivery for you. I was instructed to bring it upon arrival."  
  
"Well when will it get here?"  
  
Roy glanced at the closed-circuit television as Bulma entered the garage's elevator. "About five minutes or less. Are you decent?"  
  
Vegeta's eyes rolled. "Decent? Ha. I'd love to hear your definition of that word, given Tarble's revolving door of attractive women in the past -- but instead I'll say, yes, I am clothed properly."  
  
"Thank you, sir. See you soon." Roy stood as Bulma made her way to the front desk, holding out his arm to escort her to Tarble's residence. After leaving the elevator, he asked her to move behind after they reached the entrance. Vegeta opened the door, sipping a cup of tea.  
  
"I don't see a parcel, Roy. What is Tarble up to now? My temperament for games registers at zero."  
  
Roy moved aside, allowing Bulma to step forward. "I said delivery, sir, not a parcel. Dinner will be brought over by the new caterer in an hour. Good evening, madam."   
  
"I appreciate it," Bulma said as Vegeta blushed. She knew he wouldn't show his ass completely in a situation such as this, with Roy watching, so she entered. She didn't stop until finding the living room.  
  
Vegeta hadn't planned on murdering his brother -- one of them had to reach old age -- but Tarble was a man living dangerously, he thought. "Been here before, or did my brother send you a floor plan too?"  
  
"Don't be angry with him, Vegeta."  
  
"I'm _not_." Vegeta shot back. "I'm _incensed_. I've been on this planet thirty-eight years. I put trousers on one leg at a time, successfully, and can recite poetry in four languages. The rest I'll work out."  
  
Bulma dropped her bag on the floor. "Look, I’m not trying to be best friends or anything, but I couldn't finish the day knowing that one of Sheffield's best instructors is leaving because of a dent to his pride. Helena is quite distressed over this. Just talk with her."  
  
Vegeta responded with laughter, moving to the room's center for more tea. "Oh really? She should have considered that before dispensing with me in front of everyone like rubbish. Maybe I should have gone blind in one eye first for greater sympathy."  
  
Bulma groaned, waving her arms overhead. "Christ, man! You have _such_ a huge chip on your shoulder. I mean, look at this world around us. We're fucking fortunate to be breathing and have jobs we enjoy. Tarble and I just met, and he seems like a great guy. I would kill to have my brother even notice that I exist. And your father ---"  
  
"Hold on," Vegeta interrupted. "They were both on campus this afternoon?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Damn it."  
  
Bulma knew she was on to something now. Vegeta's guard was dropping. Maybe she could get through to him better. "Your father is more concerned about you than he tried to let on, I think."  
  
"Perhaps," Vegeta said, sounding unconvinced. "You don't know him like my brother and I do."  
  
Bulma's eyes crinkled. "I'm a good listener. Care to swap a story or two?"  
  
Vegeta shook his head, pouring a separate cup of tea and handing it to her. "No, I don't. But it's rude not to offer refreshments in my brother's home, since you're on a mission to save me from myself."  
  
"Nope, not really," Bulma teased. "I believe in the code of commercial air travel. Put on your mask first before trying to assist others on the plane."  
  
"How…encouraging," Vegeta replied with amusement. "Have a seat wherever you feel comfortable."  
  
He re-entered the kitchen, frowning as the message-notification light glowed on his phone. He rang his brother, ready to give him a piece of his mind.  
  
"I was correct!" Tarble chirped before his sibling could begin his tirade. "She is lovely and smart."  
  
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"  
  
"You sound better, abi. That's all I wanted. I sent her a basket last week with a Rumi poem."  
  
"What?!" Vegeta almost dropped his phone. "Those are mostly _love poems_. Have you lost your mind?"  
  
"Stop being so crotchety," Tarble scolded. "This wasn't really a love poem, you know? It was more like an appreciation for having joy in one's soul."  
  
"Ugh. I can't take this anymore from you. _Cannot_. I'm sending Bulma home now."  
  
"You're on first-name basis finally?" Tarble asked with a laugh. "Thank heaven. All of that highbrow properness is chafing my delicate tongue."  
  
"I'm done with you, brat. We'll speak later."  
  
"Wait, abi. Please. Does she know why you're leaving your position yet?"  
  
"I have no intention of telling her or anyone else. I wouldn't tell baba if it weren't for you."  
  
Tarble exhaled. "Vegeta, you really need a friend right now. It's good to have one who shares your same passion. It doesn't have to be romantic. Anyway, I have to go. We can discuss baba later. I love you."  
  
Vegeta's right hand clutched the kitchen counter's edge. "I know. Don't worry about me, at least for the rest of the evening. That is my wish."  
  
"Fine, abi. Enjoy your dinner. It has been prepared for your dietary needs."  
  
Tarble and Vegeta had both been sensitive boys, but the younger man had always been far more open with his feelings. He was worried but tried not to show his big brother -- whom he revered and would die for -- the true extent of his concern.  
  
Bulma didn't bother to tap on the kitchen door. Vegeta had been in there so long, she figured something might have happened. He was still holding on to the counter, staring down at his phone.  
  
"Hey," she said softly, walking next to him. "Are you all right?"  
  
Vegeta's eyes closed. "I… am. I appreciate that you cared enough to come here, Bulma. Very much. But it's better if you leave now."  
  
Bulma touched his back. "I'm no English teacher, but it doesn't sound better for you. Let me stick around for a while. We can talk about anything -- or not."  
  
"I think I know my own mind," Vegeta said stiffly. "I'll escort you to the door."  
  
Bulma put her hands on her hips. "Nope. I'm staying right here, Dr. Prens."  
  
Vegeta paused, staring like a confused puppy. "Did you just say no? To me?"  
  
Bulma walked to the end of the counter, picking up an apple. "If you expect me to respond to asinine questions on an empty stomach, then you've lost your mind."  
  
Vegeta's fists clamped. "On the contrary, you've lost yours! I just asked you to leave! Now I'm _telling_ you!"  
  
"No!" Bulma shouted, removing her shoes. "Hell, no! What are you going to do, make me? It may be better for you to keep up proper appearances instead."  
  
"You puerile termagant! How _dare you_ threaten me!"  
  
Bulma frowned. "Those words don't sound very nice."  
  
"They're not!" Vegeta roared. "I have worse ones. _Would you like to hear_ _them_? Oh, what the hell! Let me get started --"  
  
Bulma bit into her apple. "Don't even think about it, unless you want Tarble to find your severed head floating in a toilet bowl. I don't care about those muscles. I'm stronger than you think."  
  
" _Why_ do you care so much?" Vegeta asked, taking a deep breath to calm himself. " _Why_? I just don't understand. I am not a nice person."  
  
"Because, Vegeta, I see our girls' eyes light up -- because of you."  
  
"Girls at that age have crushes. I just try to get some proper teaching done between all of that adolescent chaos."   
  
"But it's more than that," Bulma implored. "I wish you could see it. Even _their parents_ are scared of you. That's one step down from their fear of Helena. That's awesome! I need some of your mojo."  
  
"Mojo? I don't know what that word means."  
  
Bulma giggled at his disapproving stare as the doorbell rang. "Consider us even then. So I can stay for dinner?"  
  
"You may not like it," he said. "May be too healthy for your tastes. Right on time, though."  
  
Bulma stepped back, puffing her chest out as he walked by. "Fie, fie! Unknit that threat'ning unkind brow. And dart not scornful glances from those eyes."   
  
Vegeta turned around. "Is _The Taming of The Shrew_ the only Shakespearean play you liked in high school, Dr. Brief?"  
  
"More so than some of the others, but I also had a cute teacher. It helped the learning process."  
  
"I see. There's a wine chest on the opposite wall. Pick whatever suits you. Tarble will finish off whatever you can't later."  
  
"What about you?"  
  
"I'm afraid I won't be able to drink anymore, unfortunately. I… am… preparing for a pancreatic transplant. If I don't, an endocrine disorder I just found out about will probably kill me. That's why I'm leaving Sheffield. I'll be traveling to Mayo Clinic for surgery. I can pay on my own. It is better than wrecking the health-insurance coverage for every other teacher at school."  
  
Bulma's smile crumpled. "Oh no. I --"   
  
Vegeta shook his head. "Please don't do that. I intend to have a pleasant meal with my uninvited guest tonight. Humor me."  
  
Bulma walked up to him, pursing her lips as if he had insulted her. "Um, hello, archduke pain in the butt! I _was_ invited, remember? You do not own this home."  
  
"I have been drunk with power too long," Vegeta said sarcastically. "Now move aside so I can answer the damned door."  
  
Bulma patted his face. "OK."

  
Sheffield's junior and senior teams did qualify for the state science competition thanks to Bulma's hard work. Amelia was a part of the group, and I rooted for her. It also dawned on everyone that Vegeta probably wouldn't be returning to teach, especially when the dean took over our literature class. We hoped for an explanation. Yet when none came, as outraged teens often do, some considered rebellion.  
  
"I mean, if Bulma forgave him, why couldn't the dean?" Siobhan hissed at lunch. "That old goat needs to pull her panties out of her ass and act like a human being. Vegeta shouldn't have been fired. He's the best English teacher I've ever had. Even my mother says that, and she dislikes him."  
  
"We don't know if he was fired," Amelia said absentmindedly. Pissed off by this, I promptly pinched her leg under the table, but it was too late to save her from further scrutiny.  
  
Siobhan's unyielding green eyes focused on my friend like a tightened crossbow. "Oh? Have you heard something, Amelia? It's not cool to hold back. We're all _sisters_ here."  
  
 _Bullshit_ , I thought. Too many eyeballs were on Amelia now.  
  
"Leave her alone, Vonnie," I said. "This isn't _Lord of the Flies_ , and don't say such mean things about the dean. We're all guessing about what happened. Unless one of the teachers comes clean, we're out of luck. But Vegeta wouldn't like us to make a huge deal over him anyway, don't you think, ladies? We still have to get through junior year, with our without him."  
  
Some other girls nodded, helping me calm the situation. I thanked Siddhartha that we dodged this bullet, but I remained just as disappointed as they were about his absence. Everyone trudged to literature class after the bell rang later. Helena stood sentry at the entrance, asking us to gather around her. The door's window shade was drawn.  
  
"Girls, form a queue here. Sit down _quietly_ after going inside. I will repeat myself only once. _Make no noise whatsoever_. We have much ground to cover today, and the first thirty minutes of your attention must be focused. Understand?"  
  
"Yes, ma'am," we murmured listlessly.  
  
Amelia and I were the last to enter. After stepping in, she glanced back and smiled at me as the dean shut the door behind us. Dr. Prens was sitting on the edge of his desk. He looked a little thinner, but no one else seemed to notice. Everyone was too thrilled. Even the dean looked highly pleased.  
  
"Good day, ladies," he said. "How are you?"  
  
We all stayed silent, looking at Helena for guidance. She laughed. "Go ahead, girls."  
  
"We're so happy you're back!" Siobhan whooped. "We’re fine! Are you OK?" Other girls chimed in. Meanwhile, Helena slipped behind Vegeta's desk, removing a tissue box from a drawer. After discovering that I knew something, her head bowed to confirm the news. My chest pounded as Vegeta's accent became more pronounced.  
  
He nodded. "For now, yes, Miss Byrne. The dean and I have something to share. This will be difficult for all of us here in this room, especially me. I know you have been concerned, so that is why I am here. The seniors heard from me earlier and agreed to keep quiet. This is officially my final day at Sheffield. As you know, I do not mince words. I expect you to work _even harder_ for your next instructors. _I demand it._ Our labor together matters. The fruits... of it matter."  
  
"Where are you going?" Amelia asked.  
  
Vegeta stood, handing me two boxes of baklava to pass around. "I am traveling to Minnesota tonight to prepare for a pancreatic transplant. The procedure has a sound record of success -- or else I wouldn't have it -- but I need to recover and rearrange my life. The dean asked me to reconsider my decision to leave, but if I cannot give my best to my students, then that would be unfair."  
  
For fuck's sake. I felt like we were characters in one of those clichéd coming-of-age novels. At least we weren't wailing near a tranquil pond about Vegeta being shot down by enemy forces during World War II. No one was surprised that he kept a calm, straight face. But you see, _I knew_ his heart was breaking, maybe more so than my peers. One had to feel intensely in order to recite poetry the way he did.   
  
From memory, Vegeta recited six pieces by women poets from all over the world, leaving copies and thanking each of us before walking out. Helena dabbed her eyes, while the rest of us sniffled and snuffled through our tears. At least we had a ton of sweets to devour.  
  
"We're all going to be OK, ladies," Helena said, passing around more tissues. "Yes, yes, my sweet girls. Vegeta -- Dr. Prens -- will be OK too. Don't you worry now! We still have time left to talk. How are those papers coming?"  
  
Bulma met up later with Vegeta in another classroom on a secluded side of campus. He entered with his Sheffield blazer draped over one shoulder. A few buttons near the top of his starched white shirt were open. His head hung down briefly as he considered what just happened. He believed this was the right decision, but what about the road ahead?  
  
"My little brother says I need to find friends who share my passions… have a passion for life."  
  
Bulma sat down next to him. "Do you agree?"  
  
"Why wouldn't I? But I have never had many close friends. Too many betrayals and grifters, and certainly not enough understanding."  
  
"OK, well, I guess I have nothing left to lose here then," Bulma replied, twisting her hair nervously. "Let me join you in Minnesota for the surgery. I have the vacation time. It's short notice, but Helena actually said today that she could find someone to cover my classes."  
  
"No, I can't let you do that," Vegeta said, looking away. "I… will not. I'll likely be in hospital almost two weeks. Tarble will keep you informed."  
  
Bulma smiled. "I won't stay the entire duration. I'll just be another friendly face to greet while you're high on pain medication for a few days."  
  
"I may require a train full of narcotics while father is there," Vegeta snorted. "I need him to avoid acting like a lunatic. He makes situations all about himself more than he should. I do not want an angry doctor's scalpel left in my abdomen. Furthermore --"  
  
"Stop," Bulma said, touching his lips. "Listen, I know this is difficult, but we all need you go into this surgery with a positive mind -- your family here and overseas, the girls, Afet, me, and I'm sure you're choosing to overlook others who would like to get closer to you. Let's start with Chi Chi."  
  
"Let's not," Vegeta said with a skeptical frown. "She dislikes me."

"Don't give me any more reasons to, and we’ll have smooth sailing!" Chi Chi shouted from the room's rear door. "Gotta run back to my class shortly, but I came to wish you the best of luck, Dr. Prens. As for you, physics nerd, call me later."  
  
"I will, my dear," Bulma said, laughing.  
  
"Thank you," Vegeta replied, appearing slightly embarrassed.  
  
Bulma turned back to him. "Look, seriously, I'm not going to pick a fight this time. If you feel more comfortable not having me in Minnesota, I understand."  
  
Vegeta flung his jacket over his shoulder, heading toward the door. "I have to go. Tarble and I are leaving in a couple hours."  
  
Accepting defeat gracefully, Bulma clasped her hands. "OK then. I'll await your brother's calls."  
  
"You won't have to. He'll book a chartered plane to retrieve you at the downtown airport early Saturday morning. It's about a four-hour flight."  
  
Bulma's eyes lit up. "You sure? You mean it?"  
  
"Don't make me regret it," Vegeta said, holding out his arm to her. His other hand adjusted the insulin pump attached to his pants. Bulma reached to hug him. At first he hesitated but then accepted.  
  
They stood there for a long time.  
  
Amelia and I saw it all, unexpectedly, after retreating to a quiet space beneath a nearby staircase to read. Our study-hall monitors occasionally let us do this. I pressed my fingers over Amelia's mouth until I was sure they were gone. She breathed like a grizzly bear sometimes.  
  
"That was quick," she said, grinning from ear to ear. "So all it takes is getting into an argument to make a love connection?"  
  
I pulled her hair. "Not funny. Remember what Bulma told us that day. She's just being compassionate."  
  
"Yeah, Alys, _and_ we've all seen those movies where people end up fucking when they're feeling lonely and sad. Give it some time. If Dr. Brief isn't here next week, then I bet you that I'm right."  
  
I stretched out on our blanket, turning my back. "Shut your dirty mouth and read, silly girl, and be more careful -- especially with this situation. I _won't_ save you next time from Siobhan and her flying monkeys."  
  
Bulma and Vegeta finally married four years later in a huge affair featuring lots of eating, dancing, laughter, and love. Former and current students saw how large Vegeta's extended family was. Bulma's mother and even her estranged brother attended, as well as her many friends and admirers. The couple was content letting the party go on without them. Both were good at disappearing into the shadows.  
  
The city newspaper's society page covered the event, along with the New York Times, People Magazine, and some international publications. We knew Vegeta hadn't orchestrated the publicity -- and probably would have preferred crawling into an abandoned coal mine to avoid it. Ӧmer was definitely behind the setup. Tarble proudly strutted through the crowd, grinning and looking dapper in his aviator sunglasses. Watching the newly married couple kiss was the best part. Vegeta held Bulma's face, peering into her eyes to reassure himself that their union was real. Bulma had the most beautiful smile I'd ever seen on her. They had good reason to be ecstatic: Vegeta almost died during transplant surgery and was in a coma for weeks. Many of us cheered and hugged at school after he regained consciousness.  
  
My friend Amelia, who later became my wife, was on the mark about those two falling hard for each other. She's never let me forget it either.

* * *

  
"It's about time you arrived, Dr. Davies. I _do not_ appreciate being kept waiting.  
  
Vegeta couldn't fake being stern with me for too much longer. He was too happy to see me.  
  
"I'm sorry, Dr. Prens. I was trying to find you, actually."  
  
"Clearly you weren't searching hard enough. I suppose these old pictures distracted you. My wife is still the prettiest one up there, don't you think?"  
  
"Um, I don't think I'm allowed to comment, sir. You may be running afoul of human-resources rules."  
  
"First of all, I'm retired and haven't worked here since you had a ponytail with ribbons. Second, when you're as old as I am, Alys, you begin not to give a shit."  
  
I couldn't help but laugh at this. "Vegeta, you _didn't give a shit_ before. Don't blame it on age. You're looking good, though."  
  
"Though?" Vegeta's eyelids tightened. " _Though?_ How flattering and insulting at the same time."  
  
He was giving a fortune to my school now to educate more girls who weren't from rich families. We looked at the photo cabinet again after a brief hug. He touched the glass, lowering his head. I touched it too, knowing how he felt.  
  
"How…is she, sir?"  
  
"Bulma still recognizes me. I am grateful for that. Still knows a lot of math too. The medication she's taking is quite good, and of course she is being well cared for at home. I'm not always feeling my best sometimes, so my brother manages our personal affairs as needed."  
  
"Do you think she will remember me? I know this isn't easy for you."  
  
Vegeta waved his hand, beckoning me to follow. "Come, Alys. Come. I'm all right. I am the luckiest man alive. My wife often discussed how much she enjoyed teaching you as much as I did. We adored you all. You will join us for afternoon tea at our home as planned."  
  
Vegeta brought me into a room decorated in soft colors at their home. A small dining table had been placed near a picture window. Bulma was dozing in an easy chair as an attendant busied herself with knitting. As promised, tea and sweet pastries and small sandwiches awaited us. Vegeta nodded at the attendant, who smiled and departed. I removed my shoes -- my feet were killing me -- and kneeled in front of this woman who taught me so much and gave love to everyone around her.  
  
I kissed the back of her hand, placing it on my forehead. "Hello, my friend. I'm so happy to be here." An adorable smile crossed over Bulma's face before her eyes fully opened. Her head angled as she tried to determine my identity, and then she sought Vegeta's assistance.  
  
"Are you going to tell me who this is, old man?"  
  
Vegeta kissed his wife's head. "You see how she treats me? This _old man_ thing started a while ago. Bulma, this is Alys, our former student. She just gave you a lovely Turkish greeting. Very, very respectful."  
  
"I know what she did!" Bulma exclaimed. "I asked you _one question_ and got _four_ answers. Hello, um, Alys?"  
  
"Yes, ma'am. It's OK if you don't remember me. It's been a long time. I just needed to lay eyes on you and your husband again. You were very kind to so many of us. I'm Sheffield's new headmistress."  
  
"You were our best student," she said, glancing at her husband. "Wasn't she?"   
  
Vegeta saw the stricken expression on my face. Bulma never classified her students as "best" or "worst." To her, everyone was a work in progress.  
  
"Alys, come get some tea over here," he commanded gently. "It's best when fresh. Be quick about it." He sounded like we were back in class. The memory felt comforting. He knew it would.  
  
Bulma wiggled her finger at him. "Stop bothering this nice woman."  
  
"What if I say no?" her husband teased, retrieving a book. "Are you going to make me?"  
  
Bulma crossed her arms and huffed, making him laugh. My soul was moved as I had the honor of witnessing this kind of love. I handed Bulma a sandwich to nibble, while Vegeta sat next to me.  
  
" _This_ is our afternoon entertainment," he declared, holding the book up. "I read one of these poems to Bulma every day, because she is my greatest pride. My… greatest pride."  
  
He seemed ready to begin until looking at me again. His voice choked up as Bulma blew a kiss at us.  
  
"Where's my smile?" she asked as I put my arm around his shoulder. "Come on. Show it to me." Vegeta agreed to her request as they looked into each other's eyes.   
  
I removed the text from his hands to read, thanking them and telling them how much they were loved. This was the least -- and the most -- I could do.  
  
 _This is love:  
To fly toward a secret sky  
To cause a hundred veils to fall each moment_  
 _First, to let go of life  
Finally, to take a step without feet  
\-- Rumi  
  
_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Had this one in a vault. I hope you liked it. (Made a few fixes, which I appreciate having pointed out.) Comments are welcome. Dedicated to Mr. V and Ms. B. I'll never forget you. 😘


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